


Day 15: Forniphilia

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [15]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Human Furniture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27207181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: Ibuki and Mamoru help each other relax.
Relationships: Anjou Mamoru/Ibuki Kouji
Series: Kinktober 2020 [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Day 15: Forniphilia

**Author's Note:**

> Another short one FINALLY YAY! This was.. supposed to be a Renai prompt, and was gonna be a rewrite of one of my first ever fics that I never posted, but then I realized I've literally only written three real Ibumamo fics and they were all in 2016. So, here you go.

It had started, as with all things, innocently enough — “you need to relax more,” Ibuki had said, out of genuine concern, after the third night in a row of Mamoru returning home from the Branch several hours late, with shadowy circles under his eyes prominent enough to rival even the most enthusiastic of Scharhrot cosplayers.

“You’re one to talk,” Mamoru had replied, before proceeding to remind him of Dragon Empire's upcoming anniversary event, and while they hadn’t exactly had an _argument_ , Ibuki had maintained a certain amount of defensiveness in the ensuing long and dramatic negotiations, in which both of them insisted _they_ were fine, and it was the _other_ who was working too hard, and _really_ needed to take a break before they fell apart entirely.

None of that particularly explains _how_ Ibuki ended up on his hands and knees in front of their sofa with Mamoru’s feet resting on his back, but he’s starting to understand the _why_.

There’s precious little for him to _do_ like this; Mamoru even instructed him not to speak, and there’s a quiet, personal little thrill Ibuki feels in obeying, like an electric current buzzing under his skin. At the same time, there's an undeniable sense of _relief_ , a slow release of unseen, unnoticed-until-now pressure with each measured breath. Here, there’s no expectations, no need to think about _words_ , or _people_ ; there’s only the soft, cushioning curls of the rug under his palms and the steady weight of Mamoru’s heels, one crossed over the other, on his back. The television drones quietly in the background, some mass-market soap opera that Ibuki couldn’t be less interested in.

Above him, wearing a fluffy bathrobe that almost comically matches the teal of his hair, Mamoru balances a glass of red wine in one hand, putting on an entirely unconvincing show of watching the television as he leans back and settles into the sofa. One eye remains on Ibuki, and the faint shadow of a satisfied smile plays across his lips as he lifts his glass to them.

Ibuki turns his head down to hide the warmth in his face, blossoming as if he’s the one drinking the alcohol.

Even now, so many years into their relationship, there's still so many things he doesn't understand about the way Mamoru makes him _react_ , but he’s not about to fight it, not when his partner is finally willing to do something that isn’t eating, sleeping, working, or trying to juggle several of those at once. Not when his own head feels so _clear_ , with the chains of decision and reason and authority stripped away and replaced with the simple objective of _stay, quietly_.

He does so, the weight of Mamoru’s feet on his spine both a burden and a relief.

After a time — he doesn’t know how long, and he can’t see the clock on the wall from this angle, but the credits of the soap are scrolling by in the background — his body starts to object to the position. Stiffness sinks gradually but undeniably into his muscles, stretching from his wrists up into his shoulders, and _noticing_ it only seems to heap fuel on the growing fire. His clothes — the same ones he wore to work, unlike Mamoru — are a weight all their own, subtly but insistently bearing down on him, and a small part of him wishes he was naked, if only to undo the last shackles chaining him to the responsibilities of public life, even if it means he wouldn’t be able to hide from Mamoru the gentle flush of his skin or the shiver in his shoulders from the increasing strain of holding himself up.

The simplicity of the position belies the struggle in holding it for an extended period, but there’s a blessing, somehow, in this kind of stress; if _pride_ was a thing that Ibuki let himself feel, perhaps this would be an appropriate place for it. It’s a familiar, comfortable task, a place Mamoru can steer him into where the rest of reality falls away and there is nothing else but the two of them, the privacy of the room, the feathery strands of the rug between his fingers, and a battle line to draw and hold against his own body. The rest of the world lies somewhere on the other side of the distant sounds of traffic outside the apartment, and for a few quiet minutes, or hours, Ibuki is content to ignore it.

Eventually, his forearms start to shake, and he shifts a hand slightly, just enough to take his weight off it for a moment.

“‘ _A fight reveals everything about a person_ ’,” Mamoru laughs, as if he’s been reading Ibuki’s mind this whole time — or more likely, he’s just that much better at figuring people out in general than Ibuki is. “How’s your fight going, Kouji?”

Ibuki turns his gaze up, creases his lips intently into a frown.

“...You can answer, it’s okay,” Mamoru adds, cracking a smile.

“I’m fine. A little stiff, that’s all.”

“You’ve been there for a good while. All that martial arts training paid off, huh?”

“This isn’t the intended usage.”

Mamoru’s feet shake as he laughs, and he unfolds his ankles as he leans over to better meet Ibuki’s eyes. He looks alert, but relaxed, and although the dark circles still clearly visible under his eyes speak to the strain he’s been under the past few days, there’s a sparkle to his gaze that wasn’t there before.

“You’re doing really well. You want to stay there, or—?”

“Perhaps,” Ibuki says, “just a little longer.”

Mamoru nods, settles back into position, and Ibuki in turn sinks gratefully back into the satisfying ache pulling at his nerves.

Tomorrow, they’ll go back to work, do it all over again; Mamoru will be swamped under other people’s work as well as his own, and Ibuki will have to talk and organize and lead and _exist_ , but for now — for now, they have _this_ , this strange, yet comfortable moment of thoughtless peace between them and the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. I feel like if people expected something other than.. Whatever This Is they should probably just have stopped reading my work already.
> 
> Halfway through the prompts! And the month is almost over Oh No
> 
> Twitter: @cosmowreath


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